


Party On?

by froggy (therealfroggy)



Series: Striptease [3]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Drunk Sex, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Multi, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/froggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a few hours after <em>Full Moon Celebrations</em>. There's still more booze, there's still nudity, but will C-Note and Sucre ever recover?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Faggot Four

**Author's Note:**

> Note: you may have noticed I rather favour gay sex. So when I use the word "faggot" here, it's meant as a joke the characters themselves might bandy about. I am not, I repeat, not in any way suggesting that gay sex is not ten kinds of awesome. I'm just not a very PC person ;)

“Let's just get this over with, okay?”

Four pairs of eyes, all of them just a bit too innocent, turned to C-Note. Sucre – who hadn't stopped blushing since Michael and Lincoln returned from their “walk”, and whose colour had deepened notably when T-Bag and Abruzzi had wordlessly returned to camp – was still staring insistently at the straw in his fingers. Lincoln caught sight of the straw and grinned at his brother, but quickly redirected his attention when C-Note started talking again.

“I don't care what you guys do, with or without clothes on,” an angry C-Note stated, “But for the love of God! Either you go somewhere else to do it, or you don't do it! I don't wanna hear you, and I definitely don't wanna see you! So please, just... Just stop _fraternizing_ around camp!”

T-Bag broke out in a drunken giggle. “Fraternizin'? Funny, I thought we were fuckin' each other.”

Michael tried to contain a laugh. Damn that tequila. He was sitting on the ground in front of their tent, next to Lincoln, and there were more than one empty bottle littering the ground around them. He didn't remember the exact number of beer and tequila bottles he'd bought, but he shouldn't have gotten so many.

“Shut the fuck up!” C-Note yelled, “Can you just...” Lost for words, the former army officer got to his feet, kicking a bottle out of his way as he strode away, headed for the general direction of somewhere else.

“Hey, Mike,” Lincoln said, laughing and reaching for a nearby bottle, “You think he needs to get laid?”

“ _Mierda_! What's up with you guys anyway?” Sucre said, looking from Abruzzi; lounging on the ground, leaning on his elbow and taking a swig from the last remaining tequila bottle, and T-Bag; still giggling from the opening of his and Abruzzi's tent, to Michael and Lincoln.

“You all just started going at it like dogs, man, just like that. I mean, you do striptease and then suddenly you're all members of _T-Bag-club_?”

Lincoln burst out laughing. T-Bag didn't even bother to be insulted; the Alabamian came crawling out of the tent on all fours, reaching for Abruzzi's bottle. “Give it here, John Boy,” he said, trying to wrestle it out of the mobster's hand. Abruzzi snarled and brought the bottle back to his lips, T-Bag still clinging to his wrist.

“Are you even listening to me? Hey – drunk faggots! _Hijo de puta!_ What's gotten into you?” Sucre said, clearly annoyed.

“I reckon the same that got into you yesterday when C-Note's girl found us,” Michael said, licking his lips blatantly and giggling.

“Hey! We made a deal, remember? The Pact?” Sucre said, obviously insulted.

“Fuck the Pact,” Lincoln muttered, then grinned and actually placed a sloppy kiss on Michael's throat, right there in front of the others.

“See, Mafia Man, I told ya they were... were jus'... What did I tell ya?” T-Bag pondered, finally managing to take a swig from the bottle in Abruzzi's hand.

“You said they weren't faggots,” Abruzzi reminded him, his gaze not quite focused. “But they are. Liar.”

“Am not!” Lincoln said, sitting up straighter and placing an arm around Michael's shoulders. “Just watching my brother's back, is all.”

“Yeah, or his ass!” Sucre retorted, glaring as Michael just grinned and placed an arm around Lincoln's waist.

Abruzzi laughed; throaty barks of laughter that made T-Bag yank his head up from where he'd been resting it on Abruzzi's leg. The mobster was too inebriated to notice, or if he did, he was too drunk to care.

“Well, at least he's got a nice view, then,” the mobster rasped. “Sure as hell beats what I've got. Hey, Sink, you wanna switch?”

T-Bag and Michael laughed, Lincoln wrinkled his brow as if trying to comprehend the joke. Sucre made a loud gagging sound. It was all too obvious; they were all drunk as hell.

“Can a man get some sleep now, or are you going to keep this up all night?” he growled, entering his tent and closing the flaps behind him.

Michael, who was feeling strangely giddy and a whole lot more childish than usual, sniggered at his former cellie's reaction. “He's just in a mood because he's missing out,” he informed his brother, “He certainly wasn't acting like this yesterday when I -”

“Shut the fuck up, Papi!”

Abruzzi was laughing again. T-Bag was looking at Michael, the old glint back in his eyes.

“Y'know, Pretty, I can't help but wonderin'. Since ya don't mind havin' fun with your own brother, and you sucked señorita Sucre right out of his brains yesterday, why can't I have a go?”

Lincoln's head came up again. “Perv off – I mean, fuck off, perv.”

“But you did,” Michael reminded him, almost sobering for a moment. “So really, it's your turn to rexi... to reci... your turn.”

“That ain't happening,” Abruzzi stated, raising the bottle to his lips yet again. “Teddy's already got a pocket to hold.”

T-Bag, grinning drunkenly, shook his head slowly. “I told you, John, I ain't a bitch.”

“That's not what I heard when you were _begging_ for it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Good idea,” Michael agreed, leaning in to kiss his brother. “Fuck him. Good idea.”

Lincoln started struggling with the buttons on Michael's shirt. Michael, still grinning, willingly let his shirt be removed. Lincoln started kissing across his brother's collar bone before going straight for his throat, nipping and sucking and licking his way towards the younger man's lips.

“You gonna let Sink and Fish show us up, Teddy?” Abruzzi said, indicating the smaller man's clothing. “Strip down.”

As T-Bag, amazingly obedient, started removing his shirt, Sucre reappeared, storming out of the tent. Cursing loudly in Spanish, he walked off in the same direction as C-Note. Michael giggled again and tried pulling his brother's tee over his head, something which proved difficult as Lincoln was clearly unwilling to stop kissing him.

“C'mon, John; you're not followin' the fashion,” T-Bag said, yanking at the taller man's shirt collar with his teeth. Abruzzi let the Alabamian start undressing him, all the while watching Lincoln and Michael. The brothers were kissing wetly, the younger one clinging to the older one's broad shoulders and the older one running big hands down pale skin.

“Mmm-mmm! Would ya look at that,” T-Bag purred in Abruzzi's ear when Lincoln groaned and tipped his head back as Michael's tongue found his nipple. Abruzzi barely had the time to draw a breath before T-Bag was working on his belt, slim fingers caressing the skin just above the buckle. The murderer was pulling on his trousers, and Abruzzi let him. The sight of the two younger men panting and writhing against each other right before him was incredibly erotic; and he welcomed any distraction the thin man now raking his nails down Abruzzi's chest, could provide.

“Michael,” Lincoln gasped, breaking their kiss for air, “You wanna get a little more... social?”

Michael all but purred in response and, somehow crossing the short space between them, placed a hand on Abruzzi's thigh. “Yeah, Linc, let's fraternize.”

“I still think what we're doin', 's called fuckin',” T-Bag said, grinning at the mobster who was breathing heavily under the onslaught of sexual attention. When Lincoln joined them and kissed his little brother right over the mobster's shoulder, Abruzzi groaned and grabbed T-Bag's wrist.

“Do something, for fuck's sake.”

T-Bag somehow managed to remove both his own trousers and Abruzzi's, then turned to Michael. “Nuh-uh, Pretty; no fun when you're so dressed up.”

Lincoln went to work on his own belt and fly. Michael reached for his own ditto, but Abruzzi swatted his hands away and ordered T-Bag, “Undress him.”

Michael didn't know where he ended and the others began. Within seconds, all four of them were down to boxer shorts; all sweat and skin and pants and groans. T-Bag was eyeing Michael hungrily, but then Abruzzi grabbed the younger man's neck and pulled him closer. “Teddy wants you, Fish. But I go first.”

T-Bag made a whining noise of protest, nearly drowned out by Lincoln's protective growl. Michael drew in a sharp breath as Abruzzi cupped him through his boxers, the older man dipping his head to nip at Michael's throat.

“All of you,” Michael finally managed, reaching out to grasp his brother's hand. “I want all of you.”

Hearing those wanton words from his brother made Lincoln groan and move in to kiss him. He didn't release Michael's lips until he felt arms snake around his waist; arms that weren't Michael's.

“Whatta ya say you an' I make ourselves comfy, then, Big Brother,” a Southern drawl caressed his ear, “while John Boy an' Pretty get it over with.”

Lincoln turned to bite sharply at the Alabamian's shoulder, smirking at the moan of pleasure that elicited. _Sadist._ “You know, I never paid you back for whacking me over the head and leaving me to bleed,” he said, knowing Michael was watching him right now. He could feel that piercing blue gaze as well as the slight twitch in the slender hand that was caressing his abdominal muscles.

“True,” T-Bag conceded, “but I'll take the repayment in other services, if that's all right with you.”

Lincoln made use of his advantage in size and strength to push the murderer down, forcing his head lower. “I guess we could work something out, yeah.”

“Be nice, Teddy,” Abruzzi rasped, by now having removed Michael's boxers as well as his own. The older man flipped Michael over on his stomach, stroking his hands down his back and sides. “Or you'll get kicked out of all the fun.”

Lincoln couldn't contain the moan spilling from his lips as T-Bag removed his boxers and started licking his way down Lincoln's stomach, his hands already grabbing the murderer's head. Keeping his gaze trained on Michael and Abruzzi, he felt T-Bag's hot breath on his erection; Lincoln moaned again and gave himself over to the sensations.

“Jesus, John,” Michael breathed as Abruzzi started pushing inside him, “easy!” The younger man was lying face-down in the dry grass, his hands fisting in it as the mobster moved roughly against him. It was obvious the man was used to T-Bag.

“You complaining, Fish?” Abruzzi grunted, angling his hips just so and sneering when Michael moaned in pleasure. “I thought not.”

Michael closed his eyes and listened to his own panting breath. It would never be like this with Lincoln. Abruzzi would always be on top; always thrusting hard inside him like this. Lincoln would be touching; trusting. Abruzzi was neither.

But God, it felt good.

“Oh, fuck!”

Lincoln's groan drew Michael's glazed-over eyes towards him. Lincoln could hardly keep his eyes open; T-Bag's mouth was so incredibly hot around him, with tongue and teeth working him roughly. But Michael's face as he lay in the grass, the older man behind him gripping his hips harshly and growling aggressively when Michael bucked against him – it was all so perfectly erotic and Lincoln couldn't help but watch.

“Oh God,” Lincoln gasped as he came, T-Bag tightening his grip on the younger man's hips. Lincoln thrust forwards into that amazing mouth; T-Bag swallowed around him and gave an appreciative hum.

“Linc,” Michael panted, “God, Linc; the look on your face...” Abruzzi was increasing his tempo, and Michael arched his back and gave a whimpering moan as the mobster did that angle again.

“Now that is what I call a visual treat,” T-Bag whispered in Lincoln's ear, looking at Michael and Abruzzi. Michael was crying out in pleasure, his lips forming a perfect ´O` as he clutched the grass beneath him and his body went rigid. Abruzzi drew a sharp breath as the younger man tensed around him, the pleasure increasing with each thrust.

Lincoln felt T-Bag twitch next to him as Abruzzi bit down on Michael's neck and hissed something in Italian.

“Jealous, T-Bag?” Lincoln murmured, watching Michael roll over with heaving breath. God, his brother looked hot after sex. And in the middle of it.

“Not with Pretty, I ain't,” the murderer said, “'cause I know John Boy don't like 'em all innocent and tender like.”

“Fish is about as innocent as you, Teddy, so that's not really an issue,” Abruzzi said. “But he'll never make a good bitch, either.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I ain't a bitch, _John_ ,” T-Bag drawled, taking in the sight of Michael lying on his back, panting.

“And how many times do _I_ have to tell _you_ , you don't have any choice in the matter?” Abruzzi retorted.

“Shut up, both of you,” Michael said, grinning. “Why can't you just kiss and make nice?”

“Hey, that was my idea,” Lincoln whispered in his brother's ear, before dipping his head down to do just that. Michael's throat rumbled in a purring sigh as his older brother tugged on his bottom lip, darting his tongue out to coax Michael's lips apart.

The kiss was languid, relaxed, sensuous. Michael gave himself completely over to the post-coital bliss still coursing through his body, and left the reins to Lincoln. Lincoln, almost casually, let his hands roam over the pale skin of his little brother's torso, leaning over him as they both lay on the ground.

Suddenly, Michael broke the kiss, looking over Lincoln's shoulder up at T-Bag. “Too asocial,” he grinned at his brother.

“Damn right you are, Pretty,” T-Bag agreed, licking his lips hungrily. “John only called first piece, not the whole thing.”

“And if Michael doesn't want to get social with you?” Lincoln growled, tightening his hold on his little brother's waist.

“Then I'm fuckin' your ass, 'cause I ain't goin' to sleep tonight 'less I get a piece of the action too,” T-Bag said, smirking.

“I'd like to see you try,” Michael said, sitting up. Lincoln sat up too, and then Michael was on him again, kissing him more passionately than he had before. “Just keep kissing me,” he whispered to Lincoln, “and I'll be okay.”

Lincoln didn't understand, but then Michael was on his knees in front of him, and T-Bag was gripping Michael's hips from behind. Michael leaned in to kiss Lincoln, steadying himself against the older man's shoulders.

“You wound me, Pretty,” T-Bag said, positioning himself behind Michael. “You gonna be kissin' another man while I fuck you?”

“Yes,” Michael moaned as the murderer entered him, and Lincoln wondered whether it was a reply or an expression of pleasure.

“Ah, Pretty, you have no idea how long I've been waitin' to do this,” T-Bag hissed, just holding still for a moment, buried to the hilt inside the pretty man on his knees in front of him. Michael whimpered in reply and gripped Lincoln's shoulders tighter.

“Is he hurting you?” Lincoln panted, breaking the kiss for air. Michael shook his head and latched onto his brother's throat, sucking and nipping until Lincoln all but squirmed.

As T-Bag started moving, Michael was pushed forwards slightly with each thrust, rocking against Lincoln. The murderer, groaning in pleasure, reached up to run a single finger down Michael's spine, tickling the skin before returning that hand to its iron fist on his hip. Michael was whimpering again, holding on to his brother while feeling T-Bag brush up against just that spot inside him.

“More,” Michael gasped. Lincoln could see a smug grin spread over the older man's face as he increased the force of his thrusts, pounding into Michael with a vengeance.

“Oh shit,” Michael moaned, and Lincoln knew he was coming. He kissed his brother more insistently, reaching one hand down to stroke Michael, trying to speed up his climax. He knew it was selfish but he wanted to see Michael's face when he came; that long second when his brow would furrow in pleasure, his breathing would hitch, his mouth would open ever so slightly and emit a whimper.

“Lincoln!” Michael moaned, “What are – oh God, yes!”

When his brother gave that little whimper, Lincoln echoed T-Bag's groan and he held his brother upright as the older man behind him let go and came. As soon as T-Bag had withdrawn from Michael, Lincoln pulled his little brother close to half lie across his lap, the younger man barely able to draw breath.

“It's not a very nice thing to do, is it,” Michael panted, closing his eyes briefly and leaning into Lincoln's hand as the older man caressed his cheek. “Trying to kill me after I got the lot of you out of prison.”

“Fuckin' you to death; that's what we're doin',” T-Bag said, a bit out of breath himself.

Abruzzi raised a finger at the murderer. “Hey, let's not forget it's called ´fraternizing`. Don't wanna offend anyone, do we?”


	2. Understanding

Fernando Sucre was not a prejudiced man. He really didn't think of himself that way. And if he was prejudiced, he strongly believed in the phrase, “each to his own”. If only his former cellie and his gang of fruits could believe that too, then everything would be swell.

As it was, the mobster and the murderer weren't the only ones showing absolutely no consideration for the Puerto Rican's mental health. Michael and Lincoln were just as bad, if not worse.

Not that he couldn't stand the thought of homosexuality; he didn't mind the concept of two men having sex. That wasn't what bothered him. What bothered him, was the fact that four drunk men, two of them _brothers_ , were currently trying to blow or fuck each others' brains out. Maybe both, if they'd drunk all the tequila (and Sucre certainly hadn't had much of it). And they were doing it right there, in front of the tents; all four of them. Together.

He'd tried to just walk off; ignoring the laughter and disturbingly physical sounds filling the heated night air. He'd tried to sit down a little way off, clear his head and think of Maricruz. He'd even tried counting sheep.

But no matter how he tried, his body disagreed with his mind. His body didn't seem to find the idea of the four men by the tents, unappealing at all. Treacherous as it was, his body distributed the blood in it exactly as it pleased, and needless to say, some of it was making his shorts uncomfortably tight.

Sighing, Sucre undid his shorts and reached into his boxers, starting to stroke himself. He needed to do _something_ about it, but Hell would freeze over before he joined in the ass rodeo undoubtedly in full swing at camp.

“Hey man, I –” C-Note stopped short when Sucre whipped around, hand still in his shorts, embarrassment quickly colouring his cheeks. “Oh.”

“Don't say it,” Sucre warned, looking away and extracting his hand from inside the fabric. Great. Why did C-Note have to come back right now? _Bad fucking timing. Mierda!_

“Don't worry, man, 's cool,” C-Note said, looking a bit uncomfortable himself. “We can't help it, right? Blame it on the fucking testosterone.” He laughed nervously and sat down.

“You too, eh?”

The former army officer cast a quick glance at the other man. “Yeah, me too.”

An uncomfortable silence rested between them. C-Note, rubbing the back of his neck, looked around as if assuring himself no one else was around.

“You ever thought about... you know... that? What they're doing?” he finally asked, nodding his head in the direction of their camp.

Sucre thought about it. He had. If he was being completely honest with himself, he had.

“I guess. I mean, I ain't gay or anything, 's just... You know, being stuck in prison and everything, and missing Maricruz...” he finished, daring a look at the other man.

“Yeah. I mean, your body doesn't fucking care, if you're surrounded by guys or if you're on the outside with women. Right?” There was something in C-Note's voice that Sucre couldn't recall. Insecurity?

“Right,” Sucre agreed, taking a second to study the other man. Where was he heading with this conversation? Sucre himself was relieved that the other man wasn't going on and on about how disgusting the other guys were – he had, after all, been caught jerking off to the thought of it.

The few clouds that dotted the night sky didn't obscure much light. For some reason he would never recall, Sucre noticed that the darker man's eyes almost glinted in the moonlight when he tipped his head back to look at the glowing orb in the sky.

Suddenly, for no real reason at all, Sucre shifted a bit closer to the other man and said, “I kinda understand them, you know.”

C-Note never looked away from the moon. “Why?” There was no resentment in his voice, just apprehension and curiosity.

“Yesterday... Well, that girl who saw you dance, she, err... she wanted a private show. Me and Scofield. He's... he's real good with his tongue, 's all,” Sucre said, trying to sound casual but feeling like someone had lit his face on fire.

C-Note stirred next to him. “Was it worth it? I mean, it doesn't mess with your head?”

Sucre shook his head. “Not really. 'S better than doing it yourself. I mean –” He broke off before he could say anything else, needing to rethink his words. “I mean, it's no difference from when a girl... 's just a mouth, know what I'm saying?”

Silence stretched. Sucre was about to get up and leave to take care of his unfinished business from earlier when the other man spoke again.

“You wanna give it a shot?”

Sucre sat rooted to the spot. Give it a shot? As in, blow him?

“Sorry, man,” C-Note said quickly, running a hand over his head, “Forget it. It was just a thought.”

“No,” Sucre said, slowly turning to the other man. “We understand each other, right? Nothing else, just... we just help each other out.” With that, he put a hand on the other man's thigh.

C-Note said nothing, didn't move as the Puerto Rican reached for his zip. He didn't react when Sucre, kneeling, pushed his shorts down. Only when a calloused hand reached into his underwear did he tense up.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Sure,” Sucre confirmed, licking his lips nervously and lowering his head towards the darker man's erection. He'd never given head before, but the thought of not getting any satisfaction himself was just the push he needed to close the distance between them and place his lips cautiously at the tip of C-Note's cock.

“Woa,” C-Note gulped, raising a hand to push on Sucre's head but stopping himself. He hadn't had sexual contact with anyone since he went to prison; this was too intense. Just the feel of the other man's hesitant lips as they slid down around him made him groan and gasp for breath.

Sucre thought back to the heated moments in the alley behind the emergency exit; how Michael's mouth had felt and what he could remember. Michael had taken him all in, but Sucre couldn't; he nearly gagged as C-Note hit the back of his throat. Instead he pulled back a little, going for the most sensitive areas.

“Shit,” C-Note moaned, biting his lip. He couldn't help it as he bucked forwards, Sucre's lips tight around him. He felt the Puerto Rican's tongue slide clumsily along the underside of his cock; clumsily but so incredibly hot. He figured he hadn't even lasted for five minutes when he felt himself coming.

As soon as Sucre tasted the salty liquid on his tongue, he pulled back and moved a hand up to replace his mouth. When C-Note came, uttering a single, strangled cry of pleasure, Sucre couldn't help but watch his face in fascination. He'd never seen a man looking like that.

“Sorry man, I don't swallow,” Sucre said apologetically as the darker man, panting, opened his eyes again and looked at the hand still stroking him. Sucre released him quickly, however, as soon as it was clear his climax was over. He didn't quite know what to do with his sticky hand.

“Don't sweat it,” C-Note said, a grin spreading over his face. “You could do with a little more practice, but you're good at this for a first timer.”

Sucre, grinning back, looked suggestively at the other man's mouth. “And I guess you're better?”

“Hell no,” C-Note replied, doing his shorts back up, “but that'll have to be your problem.”

He reached for Sucre's shorts, which he had never done back up, but Sucre's hand on his wrist stopped him. “This stays between us, right?”

“What the hell do you take me for?” C-Note asked, tugging at the fabric beneath his fingers. “You did me a favour, now I do one for you. It's as simple as that. Nobody's business but ours.”

Relaxing, Sucre leaned back on his elbows and let C-Note pull him out of his boxers. He closed his eyes and focused on the physical sensations; on the skin contact as a hand stroke him, on the heat of the other man so close to him. Nothing but pleasure.

But then C-Note's lips closed around him, and Sucre had to watch. The other man's brow was furrowing in concentration; he wasn't even in the same league as Michael where skill was concerned but the heat and the friction was overwhelming. To see that strong jaw and fast mouth engulf his cock was all the visual stimulation Sucre needed, and he closed his eyes again, moaning in pleasure when C-Note started repeating some of his own earlier actions.

“Hell no my ass,” Sucre panted, trying to keep control of himself but achieving only to rock slightly in counterpoint to the tongue stroking him. The darker man brought a hand up to steady himself at Sucre's hip, brushing over all the skin on the way. Sucre's body screamed its consent, escalating in a contented groan as he came in C-Note's mouth.

“You're right, I ain't swallowing this,” C-Note said after spitting discreetly over his shoulder. Sucre, though taken with the rush of pleasure coursing through him, laughed.

“Fair enough.”

The two men just sat there for a while, each thinking about the same things; sex, faggots, swallowing, women. Finally, Sucre got up and looked back down at the man sitting in the grass. “We understand each other?”

“We understand each other,” C-Note replied, smiling slightly.

“I'm just gonna go see if they're done yet,” Sucre said, “but if they're not, I'll tell them to go somewhere else. I need some sleep, man.”

“I think I'll join you,” the former officer said, “we'll have to be two to kick them out of the camp.”

Sucre sighed with relief. Understanding. That was just the word for it.


	3. Control issues

“You got some serious control issues, y'know, boys,” T-Bag drawled, running a hand slowly up Michael's thigh. The younger man was lying on his side, leaning on his elbow, and T-Bag was snuggling up right behind him. If a drunken Michael would let him stay this close, then he needed to get the Pretty drunk more often.

Abruzzi and Lincoln were grinding against each other, none willing to relinquish control but both in desperate need of release. Lincoln nipped at Abruzzi's throat, and the older man firmly grabbed the younger's hip. A battle of giants. T-Bag felt himself grow incredibly aroused.

“Just look at 'em,” he murmured in Michael's ear, “that's some pounds of muscle and force right there.”

Michael uttered a strange, longing sound, unable to tear his eyes away from his brother and the mobster, all but wrestling on the ground, kissing and fighting all at once.

Lincoln reached down and wrapped his fingers around Abruzzi, and the older man groaned before returning the favour. Still locked in a bruising kiss, the two men started stroking and pulling, as if trying to force the other to surrender. They rolled around, never breaking contact but shifting so that soon Lincoln was on top, then Abruzzi pushed him to the ground, and then Lincoln again.

“Jesus,” Abruzzi breathed when Lincoln shifted his hand, the angle changing and the sensations increasing. He started stroking faster, trying to coax a different reaction out of the younger man, but Lincoln barely gave a growl before matching Abruzzi's pace.

Searing heat flooded Abruzzi, then he was pumping into Lincoln's hand, gasping and moaning and coming. Lincoln's mouth against his neck stretched in a smile, then lifted in a choking breath as Abruzzi tightened his grip on him. Within moments, he was thrusting just like the older man and uttering a single, deep-throated growl as he came, spilling himself over the older man's hand, their come mixing on both of their hands.

“Why, John,” T-Bag whispered, suddenly hovering right at Abruzzi's shoulder, “I didn't know you cared.”

It took Abruzzi a moment to realize what, exactly, the murderer was talking about. When it hit him, he felt his jaw drop. He'd moaned T-Bag's name when he came. When Lincoln was jerking him off.

“I don't,” he said gruffly, “force of habit.”

“You just keep telling yourself that,” Michael said, grinning as he moved closer to his brother again.

Abruzzi snarled something unintelligible, looking around for something to drink. “No more tequila?”

“You finished the last bottle just before Sucre left,” Lincoln said before pulling Michael in for another kiss. Damn but his brother looked enticing tonight. Michael snorted a laugh, trying to push away but giving in easily when Lincoln pulled him closer and started nibbling along his jawline.

“Should-a gotten us some more, Pretty,” T-Bag said, looking oddly smug.

“No I shouldn't,” Michael said, tipping his head back as Lincoln kept on kissing down his throat. “Because then you'd have been too smashed to ´fraternize`.”

“That ain't possible, Pretty; not with all you fellas hangin' round in your skins.”

“He's right,” Lincoln muttered, his kisses by now approaching Michael's abdomen. “You can't drink away the sight of you like this.”

Michael drew a shuddering breath when Lincoln started biting along his hip bones before moving on to nuzzle at the inside of his thigh. When his brother's lips closed around him, Michael gave a whimper and arched his back off the ground.

“Linc!” he moaned, “Don't stop! Oh God, don't stop!”

Lincoln growled appreciatively around his brother, sliding his tongue slowly over the heated flesh in his mouth. Michael's hands were fisting in his short hair, his slender torso a perfect arch from where he was engulfed in Lincoln's hot mouth to where only his head touched the ground.

“Oh God! Yes, oh God, Lincoln!” Michael breathed, frantically clutching at the grass, at Lincoln's head, at anything that would keep him anchored to reality as he started spiralling away from it. His eyes, long since slipped shut, rolled back in his head and he couldn't breathe.

When Lincoln reached a hand up to grab his own, Michael cried out in ecstasy and came in the older man's mouth, thrusting his hips forwards to prolong every second of it.

“Now I've tried to kill you, too,” Lincoln laughed, lying heavily down next to his brother, spent. He felt like just going to sleep right there, stark naked, outside their tent. Michael was already dozing off; his eyes fluttering closed and his breathing deepening.

“Pretty sleepin' already?” T-Bag said, pulling his boxers back on with a grin. Abruzzi had already replaced both his underwear and his trousers.

Lincoln smiled down at his brother. “Can't say I blame him.” With that, Lincoln managed to pick his brother up, open the tent flaps and gently deposit the sleeping Michael inside their tent. He entered the tent himself afterwards, leaving the flaps open for air and lying down next to his little brother.

“Teddy, get the fuck off me!”

“Why? Just tryin' to get you ready for bed.”

“Oh, just fuck off.”

“Sure; with you?”

“Hey, get in your tent and shut up,” Lincoln laughed, “you'll wake him.”

He could hear the mobster's grumbling and T-Bag's drunken laughter, then the sound of tent flaps closing. The last thing he remembered before drifting off to sleep with his arms around Michael, was T-Bag's voice, full of giggles: “So, John, you want me to hang a sheet?”


End file.
